Fine Lines
by heygodcomplex
Summary: It doesn't matter whether you love or hate because there's only a fine line separating the two.


Love, hate, you can describe it either way. They're both excellent words for that undeniably strong emotion you feel as you watch him, hear him speak, feel his embrace.

* * *

Ever since you were born, you've loved him.

Ever since you were born, you've hated him.

There's really not much of a difference.

Both of those feelings are warm and powerful, indescribably powerful, and they overtake you when your eyes rest on him. They're both normal, yet nothing but. They both urge you to do something drastic, to hug him tightly, tightly, encompass his body with your arms, until his face is a lovely shade of blue and he's gasping for air. Because that can be interpreted both ways.

There really isn't much of a difference.

* * *

He's always bested you; it's been that way since childhood and you assume it'll be that way now and always. They fawned over him while they barely gave a glance towards your direction. At first you thought there was something wrong with you. Later you realized that, no, there was nothing faulty about you; it was just that he was better than you. He shone brighter. He was a star, and you were just a passing comet. The two of you could never be compared, but you tried to be noticed anyways. You were rewarded with a smile, or a pat on the head, a ruffle of your hair. But they were fleeting, short, barely enough to be worthwhile.

And all the while you knew _he_ was surrounded by people who admired everything about him; his talents and personality and accomplishments and even his _flaws_ were praised. While you were ignored and sometimes shunned.

You stopped trying, and they never noticed.

You hated him.

And you loved him.

* * *

He cared too much. He'd poke about your life, in places that didn't need to be poked, thank you very much. He'd have a warm smile on his face—sometimes you wondered if it was literally plastered on—but his eyes would scream worry.

He cared too much, and he worried too much.

Did you have anything to eat? Did you clean your house? Did you want company? The questions went on and on, and sometimes you wanted to scream at him, to ask him why _he_ cared, why _he_ cared about anything. Sometimes you did just that.

You'd be rewarded with nothing. Your yelling would result in nothing but a teary sniffle and a hurt expression.

You hated him for that, for making _you_ the cruel monster.

And you still loved him, loved him for caring, for worrying.

You hated him, too.

* * *

He was bright. Annoyingly bright and almost too cheerful to be real. Too happy, too smiling and far too pleasant. Everyone seeked his company, because he made others happy and grass grow and birds sing. He was fucking Cinderella, and you weren't even the stepsister. You got to be one of the people who were at the ball, one of the faceless, nameless masses nobody gave a second look at.

His voice was familiar to you, more familiar than you'd like it to be, perky and exuberant, and you'd hear it at random intervals, at times when you were least expecting it. His singsong voice, light and airy, the voice that you adored and loathed.

Did he seek attention? Maybe. But more likely than not he was just naturally that way, optimistic and dazzling and ditzy.

And you loved him, his bright, radiant personality, his bubbly laugh and his happy smile.

You hated it, too, the way he was too bright, too radiant and bubbly and happy.

You loved him.

You hated him.

* * *

He was undoubtedly oblivious, completely and entirely. It was a feeble excuse, though. A weak, stupid excuse.

His actions caused you pain, far more times than you could ever count. It took an hour to count to two thousand. You imagined it'd take you years to list the times he's hurt you unknowingly.

Your mind, surprisingly enough, made an attempt to defend him for his unwittingness. For the way he hurt you, mind and body, so acutely that you wondered if he was doing it deliberately. Because every time he shone, a dagger stabbed your traitor of a heart; every time he worried about you, something heavy was bound to crush it; every time he looked at you with a betrayed look, it shredded into a million pieces.

He pierced you unintentionally. That's what you said.

You hated him.

But you still loved him.

* * *

He loved you. There was no doubt about it, of course he did. He was noticeably happier when he was around you—although how that was possible you had no idea. He cared about you and worried about you and thought about you when he made his favorite dish—which was probably why you often received a visit from him, along with a steaming plate of whatever he had cooked that day.

Even though you'd been separated from him for years—ages and ages, and you hardly remembered anything about him in those days—he loved you. When the two of you were united, he embraced you with no hesitation. Yes, it was in his nature to do things like that, but he gave you his all, like you'd known him forever, like you were the closest of brothers, of friends. He loved you with his entirety, with his heart and mind and soul, if you believed in that too.

He told you his secrets, placed complete trust in you, believed everything good about you and overlooked the bad. He did his best to make you happy, and he laughed when you laughed, cried when you cried. He was like an orphaned puppy; he was faithful and trusting, he loved you for some inexplicable reason, something that didn't make sense at all. He dogged you everywhere, and for some stupid reason—maybe you fed the dog once, out of pity—he loved you.

And he grew on you. Before you knew it, he wasn't just an annoying pest that was looking for food, he was a lovable friend, someone _you_ could trust and believe in, someone you were close to.

Someone you loved.

He loved you.

You loved him.

But you hated him too.

* * *

Love, hate, you can describe it either way, or both. They both describe the overwhelming feeling that floods your body and your mind and your thoughts as your eyes meet his.

There's a fine line between love and hate, and honestly it doesn't matter which one you feel for him.

Love.

Hate.

Love.

Hate.

There really isn't a difference.

**

* * *

A/N: **Gahhh, I love angst, don't I? Anyways, I started off writing this about Canada, and then it turned into Romano (presumably around the point where Do Better came on on my computer…it's his theme song…), and yeah. Very repetitive, but it was sorta the point…I love repetitive writing, it's so easy to do…

This fic wrote itself. So yeah.


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